


Failed Mission

by alternatedoom



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Age Difference, Alternative Perspective, Depressing, Extremely Dubious Consent, Kink Meme, M/M, Pheromones, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-10
Updated: 2009-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-20 21:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12441738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatedoom/pseuds/alternatedoom
Summary: It's all pheromones when Anole is captured by Daken.





	Failed Mission

**Author's Note:**

> Written anonymously for the Marvel Kink Meme [here](https://marvel-kink.livejournal.com/1724.html?thread=631996#t631996).
> 
> Prompt was: _Anole, on mission, gets captured._
> 
> _By Daken._

The Wolverine impersonator drags him through a maze of labyrinthine corridors and into a musty little room, empty except for a pair of shackles set into the wall and a simple wooden chair. Fake Wolverine eyes Victor's larger arm, cuffs his slender arm at the wrist. The sharp black claws he'd been holding to Victor's neck retract into his knuckles.

"Stay here," he commands, unnecessarily, and he leaves Victor alone.

Victor tests the cuff, but it holds fast. He wonders how long they're going to let him stew here. He doesn't like feeling powerless, and with every second that passes, Victor thinks worriedly about all the people he's letting down.

And now they're gonna have to mount some risky rescue mission, and that sucks. He's failed. From what he's heard of the new team of Avengers, they're probably going to torture him if he doesn't tell them everything they want to know. He'd known that going in, of course. They're going to want to know who he is, who sent him, what he came for... everything.

Victor mentally steels himself to protect the team. He knew the moment that orange-gloved hand clapped down on his shoulder that A) he was screwed and B) he was not telling them anything. He knew it straightaway, it's not even like it was a choice. Of course, he'd been sure he wasn't going to get caught, too, and look how well that turned out. He hopes the cavalry shows up quickly. Fake Wolverine is probably retrieving Norman Osborn right now. Victor's never been tortured, and he's determined to protect his teammates, but if he's honest with himself, he's not sure how he's going to hold up to hardcore, strategically inflicted pain.

But when the door opens, Fake Wolverine comes back in alone. He's still wearing his uniform and he's holding a manila folder in one hand. The black claws are not in sight, so the curling tattoo around his arm is the only outward sign that it's not the Wolverine he knows and trusts.

Fake Wolverine sits down in the only chair. Victor crouches uncomfortably in the corner. He's chained with only a few feet's worth of latitude in his bonds. Fake Wolverine's only about eight feet away, so Victor could attack with his tongue if he cared to, but there doesn't seem to be any point. If he thought he could take this guy, he would have done before being locked up. Some of the new Avengers he might have a chance against, but not the Wolverine impersonator.

Balancing the folder on his lap, Fake Wolverine pulls off his mask and smiles at Victor. The guy who captured him turns out to have a lush black mohawk and ice blue eyes. With his classically handsome bone structure, pale skin and the tattoo, the look comes off as kinda punk. He's hot, fantasy-material, pinup-stud-calendar hot, though there's something cruel about his eyes. His eyes remind Victor of someone, but he can't place them.

He wonders if all the new, psycho Avengers are as hot as their version of Wolverine. He has trouble pulling his eyes away.

Fake Wolverine eyes him. "Why are you here?" he says in a calm, neutral voice.

Victor decides to sidestep that question for as long as he can. "Don't you want to know my name?"

"I know your name," Fake Wolverine says dismissively, carelessly leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms. "It wasn't exactly difficult to pick you out of the crowd," he adds, holding up the folder. Victor notes his given name typed neatly across the little tab, his code name beside it in parentheses.

Victor stares back at him, trying to stay strong. "I don't know your name."

"The outfit doesn't give it away?" Fake Wolverine laughs almost bitterly, like there's a joke there and he knows it's on him. He crosses his legs elegantly. "I'll ask the questions."

Strangely, Victor doesn't feel threatened. He's relaxing.

Fake Wolverine flips the folder open and looks down at the pages. "Are you aware that you're the color of the wall, or is that unconscious?"

No, he was vaguely aware of it. Sometimes he unconsciously changes colors when he's stressed, but right now he's acutely aware of every tensed muscle, every ounce of anxiety. "Semi-conscious," he allows, shifting back to his normal pale green.

"Do you prefer Victor or Anole?"

"Anole." With his friends and his teammates, Victor prefers the name his parents gave him, but he's a prisoner here. Better to stick to the code name.

Fake Wolverine turns another page. Victor wonders what's written about him there, what the enemy knows. "Why are you here, Anole?"

Victor doesn't answer, just staring at his jailer.

"You know," Fake Wolverine says, looking up from the folder, "You could do a lot of prison time for trying to sneak into a federal building." He pauses, then adds deliberately, "But I won't lie to you. In this den of thieves, I highly doubt you'll so much as see the inside of a courthouse."

Despite the vaguely threatening words, Victor feels like he can trust this guy. Maybe he's the good cop and it's going to be a good-cop bad-cop thing, but Norman Osborn hasn't come to join them, it's just him and this blue-eyed mutant hottie. Fake Wolverine is staring at him in a way that can only be described as loaded. The beguiling quality of his gaze makes Victor wonder about his sexuality, and his cock twitches in his pants. Fake Wolverine would be androgynous if not for all the muscles and the retro but masculine hairdo. He's really attractive.

Fake Wolverine flashes a silky smile at him.

"I know what you're thinking, you know."

The words hang in the air a moment. "Wh--what?" he stutters.

"Either you have massive Stockholm issues in general or you're a little lizard fag." Fake Wolverine's tone is light, and he leans forward as he says it. Victor's realizes, startled, that it's not an insult--it's a come-on. Fake Wolverine's _flirting_ with him.

"I don't have Stockholm syndrome," Victor retorts, startled both by the bluntness and the apparent flirting. Miss Frost taught a one-shot class on avoiding Stockholm when suffering long-term captivity, based mostly around the idea that it could be avoided if you paid attention and stayed emotionally on guard. _Such situations are occasionally exciting, but less than ideal for liaisons, children._ Though Miss Frost had simultaneously been quite open about the psychoanalytic view of the syndrome as survival strategy, and suggested it could be employed as such.

Then he realizes what he just implied (little lizard fag, indeed) and he blushes a little. Fake Wolverine seems amused. Fake Wolverine makes him uncomfortable, but Victor still gets the odd feeling he can trust this strange mutant, and he can't deny to himself that he feels very, very attracted to him.

And he'd denied the Stockholm thing--and rightly, cause that takes weeks at least and isn't even necessarily sexual in nature--yet he can't pull his gaze from the guy's handsome blue eyes, smooth, unblemished skin, and well-defined muscles stretching the thin orange spandex. His hair must grow thick and dense to look so luxurious even when cut and styled in a mohawk, and Victor's hand itches to take a fistful and run his fingers through it. He wonders what Fake Wolverine's cock looks like.

Victor drops his eyes, guilty and not sure why he's having dirty thoughts out of nowhere.

Fake Wolverine smiles at him. "So did you want something from me, Anole?"

Victor's almost too ashamed to answer. He's a prisoner of this guy and wanting to have sex with him is messed up. Maybe it's the danger, although he's never been aroused by dangerous situations in the past. And yes, Fake Wolverine is hot, but Anole's used to being around hot guys. His teammates and teachers are commonly drop-dead gorgeous.

Huh, maybe he _does_ have Stockholm issues. Not that he's going to act on them.

"No," he says, firmly.

Fake Wolverine has a shark-like grin, full of extremely white teeth. "You sure about that?"

"Are you a telepath?" Victor asks anxiously.

"No, Anole. I can smell that you're horny. So to speak." Fake Wolverine's teasing him, sounding playful now.

Oh, great. "That's a terrible pun," he observes, to cover his embarrassment. Even though Fake Wolverine can probably smell that too.

"I know. One too many fights with that Deadpool fuck."

Victor's on the cusp of getting this reference, but he doesn't have time to think about it. His captor stands up and drops the folder on the seat of the chair, and the knowledge hits Victor like a cement truck. Those blue eyes. Victor didn't have Logan as his advisor for very long, cause they didn't hit it off and Victor wasn't completely comfortable with him. But like most of his male teachers, Victor's had his fair share of fantasies about him, and he's always rather liked Logan's appraising, serious, occasionally kind blue eyes.

Fake Wolverine has the exact same eyes, a more remote look in them, perhaps, and rather colder, but otherwise identical. Plus the claws, the razor-sharp barbed tips of which he recently felt pricking against his neck. And he heals. With the eyes on top of the other stuff, and the apparent ability to smell everything in the vicinity, it can't be just coincidence. Fake Wolverine doesn't sound the same as Logan, though. He has a European accent Victor doesn't know how to place, and his coloring and features are subtly different, or Victor might have recognized the family resemblance earlier.

Younger brother, then, or a son, or a cousin? Fake Wolverine looks like he's about twenty-five, but Victor knows looks can be deceiving with a healing factor. Logan's old, supposedly far far older than he looks.

As Fake Wolverine comes over to him, Victor tenses for a blow. He's afraid to ask, but he wonders if Fake Wolverine's going to rape him, or do him some other kind of sexual violence. For a second he's paralyzed with fear they might amputate something. He's heard the rumors of Osborn doing experimentation on mutants, and Victor wants to keep his limbs the way they are. He likes having a normal-sized, standard-shaped human arm, and not just because the one that was cut off grew back with claws he can't use to jerk off. And Jesus, why is he thinking about masturbation? He's physically aroused, his dick hard under his uniform pants, and he has no idea why. Worse, no way can he adjust himself in front of Fake Wolverine. Victor shifts uncomfortably.

After Dr. McCoy's diagnosis, he endured a little good-natured joking from the guys about cutting off his dick to grow it back larger, as well as some serious adult discussion of how much stronger and tougher he could be if he so chose, but Victor's wary of further transformation. He's already well beyond any hope of passing, but he treasures the parts of himself that resemble those of normal people. He doesn't want to end up looking like a reptilian version of The Thing. Logically, it doesn't make sense for him to fear amputated limbs more than people who can't regenerate lost parts, but he knows logic doesn't play much of a role in anybody's private emotional turmoil.

To his relief, Fake Wolverine doesn't pop the claws or otherwise indicate any intent to do him harm. He just crouches down next to Victor, then swivels his legs to sit Indian style on the floor beside him. Up close, Fake Wolverine smells like sex and some subtle, expensive cologne, or maybe a fancy European soap.

"You look terrified," Fake Wolverine says calmly.

"I'm not," he lies.

Fake Wolverine gives him a look that says he knows Victor's lying.

"It's Daken. Just so you have something to scream." Fake Wolverine languidly lifts his arms over his head, stretching, and it seems to Victor that he's as different from Logan as night from day. Logan's gruff, but kind (except of course when he's teaching Combat class, when he's consistently a total bastard). Logan's coolly self-assured impersonator, on the other hand, seems like a whole other ballgame.

Daken. Victor thinks the name experimentally. Daken, who has to be Logan's relative. There's no way he's not.

Daken. Something to scream. Holy shit.

"Are you going to hurt me?" Victor can't keep the note of fear out of his voice.

"In the next twenty minutes? Only if you want me to," Daken says, and smirks.

The next twenty minutes, oh god.

Extending a single black claw, Daken delicately lifts Victor's heavy arm up for an examination of his clawed hand. Victor doesn't resist.

"After that I'm going to need you to answer some questions for me, and depending on your answers, I might have to hurt you," Daken answers, his face grave.

"I'd rather not, of course. But that can all wait." Daken smiles winningly as he takes off his shirt. "I was thinking first you might give me a demonstration of all the outrageously debauched things you can do with that famous tongue."

Victor blanches.

He's turned on, yes, and he's not sure why, but no. No way. Granted, he's more tempted than he should be, but he's waited this long, he's not going to throw his first time away on an egotistical enemy while he's being held hostage. No matter how breathtakingly gorgeous said enemy is, no matter how persuasive.

"No," he says, but his voice lifts at the end and the word comes out more hesitantly than he intended, more question than statement.

For just a moment, Daken looks surprised. Then he smiles. "Whyever not? And don't pretend for one second that I'm reading you wrong."

 _I wanted to wait._ Now if only he could recall what he wanted to wait for, again. Victor struggles to remember. "I was planning... "

Daken's starting to interrupt with something when suddenly the pieces fall back into place.

"I'm waiting until I'm in love." Victor says it in a rush, before he forgets again.

For a second Daken looks exasperated, but he quickly smiles and it melts away, leaving his blue gaze even more intense than before. "Now why would you want an absurd thing like that?"

Victor's painfully horny. His hand twitches and he almost puts it on his dick, but he stops himself at the last minute so that he only abruptly jerks it up a couple inches, then drops it. He feels certain Daken notices. As to the question, he has no answer. All he can do is shrug.

"I didn't think that's what young people were doing these days," Daken says pleasantly.

"It's what I'm doing," Victor responds, but any real conviction has vanished from his voice. Victor looks at the strong lines of Daken's chin, the casually sophisticated slump of his shoulders. He's beautiful, like a supermodel slumming in the basement at a block party. He smells really good, too. Victor breathes in Daken's scent.

Maybe waiting isn't that important after all. He's not sure why he's resisting.

Daken smiles indulgently, and he murmurs something Victor can't quite catch about a challenge. Then his eyes soften, and he gently touches Victor's cheek. "You have pretty eyes, Anole."

Victor's used to compliments on his green eyes--everyone's comfortable flattering the only wholly normal thing about him--but said compliments aren't usually uttered so quietly, or so romantically.

"Thanks," he mutters. Every nerve fiber in his body is focused on the slow, feather-light drag of Daken's fingers sliding down his cheek.

"They're the color of new life in the early spring. That light pale green. I've always thought if renewal had a color, it would be that green." Daken looks at him--if such a thing is possible with those blue eyes gone all soft and doe-like--Daken looks at him hard, and he grips his upper arms just as tightly. "I want you, Anole. Passionately. Say yes."

Victor hesitates, but he nods. "Yes." Yes. His dick is fully stiff in his pants, and yes, he wants Daken too. He reaches out, trembling a little at his own nerve, at his decision, and sets his fingers to unfastening Daken's wide red Wolverine belt.

His hand freezes when he remembers out of nowhere that Daken's essentially promised to torture him for information in less than half an hour.

The sudden recall leaves Victor horribly torn again, ashamed of his own desire and not understanding why he's doing what he's doing. He buries his face in his hands, utterly conflicted and confused until Daken's hand slips into his lap.

"Shhh, it's all right," Daken whispers, and the shame mysteriously evaporates. Daken skillfully gropes him through his pants, giving Victor's dick a little rub and squeeze through the thick fabric, and Victor forgets all their words and just feels. Daken slides a warm hand over the smooth scales of his neck, gently pinching the pointed top of Victor's ear as he leans in. Daken kisses him once with those thick, sensual lips, a deep kiss with plenty of tongue, and then he puts his mouth to Victor's ear.

"Anole, little Anole..." Daken sighs.

Victor takes a deep breath as Daken's arms tighten comfortingly around him. He buries his face in Daken's shoulder, giving into the familiar reptilian impulse to curl up and hide. Daken's skin feels blissful. Victor's body temperature stays low when he's out of the sun or in a warm environment, and the basement room is cool. Daken's body feels wonderfully hot where it's pressed against his, the scales of his chest leeching the warmth from Daken's flesh, and the emotions he's getting from Daken are all warm and reassuring.

"I want you too." Daken says it like a confession, and Victor knows there's something wrong with this but he's not quite sure what it is. All he knows is that he trusts Daken. He's not certain of anything else, and Victor clings to him as the only solid thing in a spinning, confusing world.

"I'm going to make love to you, and you're going to love it," Daken murmurs sweetly.

* * *

The process ends up taking at least fifteen minutes and far more conversation than is usually necessary, but at last he nails what the boy needs. Rarely, Daken's encountered mutants and other beings with varying levels of natural resistance to his ability. Anole is apparently one of that breed with limited resistance.

But he's susceptible enough; in the end, most of them are. Daken's happy to provide the little extra nudges of solicitous physical contact and romantic words.

Anole all but climbs into his lap, so Daken holds him tenderly for a few minutes, letting the kid steal his body heat. With what he's planning to take from the boy, it seems a fair trade. He eases up on the pheromones, because the green boy seems on the verge of passing out. Anole's languorous and out of it, clutching him, which is perfectly fine for a lot of things, but Daken wants to get his cock sucked. When Daken releases him and starts to pulls away, Anole doesn't seem to want to let go. He makes a noise like a sad puppy as Daken slips hands under his fingers and gently pries them off.

When the pitiful little sound leaves Daken unmoved, Anole finds his voice. "No, please," he begs. "Hold. Hold me."

Daken smiles at the pleading. Not exactly where he wants Lizard Boy, not a wordless, moaning, aching ball of nerves and lust crying out to be fucked, but close enough. "You have to let go, or we won't be able to do all the things we're longing to do to each other."

Anole reluctantly lets him draw back, quivering a little as he does so. Probably already missing the heat source. Daken had skimmed the file, and he'd expected Anole's body to be cool, but Anole's skin feels considerably colder to the touch than the numbers in the dossier led him to expect.

"Do you trust me?"

Anole nods, obedient as any good dog.

"Good. I want you to suck my cock, dear heart."

Patently ridiculous as it is, the endearment has the effect he'd hoped for. Anole looks happy. Daken concentrates on feeling happy himself, contented and comfortable, thinking about the amazing blowjob he's about to get, and he projects that pleasant self-satisfied feeling outward.

Daken lifts his hips and eases his pants off, then takes off Anole's. He judges the boy unable to do it himself at this point.

"You're not... not wearing..."

"Underwear?" Daken finishes for him. He's impatient, and Anole's probably incapable of completing a sentence more than three words long. With fleeting, amused thoughts of Little Red Riding Hood he answers, "The quicker to get closer to you, my dear."

Anole looks anxious at the sight of Daken's cock. "Come on," Daken coaxes, thrusting his hips up a little to drive the point home.

Anole inhales deeply, then lowers his head and puts his lips to Daken's erection. Unfortunately, they both quickly discover Anole doesn't have enough moisture in his mouth to make the movement smooth. He's still tense, Daken thinks, that's probably why his mouth is all dry.

Daken sits motionless, waiting as Anole musters up saliva. After a few moments, he slides his mouth back along Daken's erection, wetter now.

Daken's immediately dissatisfied. There's no suction, too much scraping of teeth, not nearly enough tongue action, and he's not going down the shaft far enough.

Daken presses his head farther down to resolve that last issue. Anole chokes a little.

"You're not very good at this," Daken observes, terribly disappointed.

Stung, Anole lifts his head up and pulls away a little bit. "I never did it before," he answers defensively, and his eyes fill with tears.

"Shhh, it's all right. Sorry love. I didn't mean it." Daken soothes him with little strokes to his scaly head, chemically smoothing his metaphorical ruffled feathers. "With that tongue, I figured... well... maybe I was expecting a little much of you."

Anole looks at him tearfully, and Daken kisses him to make it better.

"Try again, use your tongue more," he encourages.

Anole's tongue wraps a half dozen times around his dick, and it's not the mind-bending blowjob he'd hoped for, but the sensation is inarguably novel. Daken curiously runs a hand over the ridges along Anole's scalp, tracing a single finger over the breaks in the segments of his carapace.

When Daken pushes his head away, Anole feeds more of his tongue out to keep gripping Daken's cock. "Okay, that's enough," he has to say to get Anole to retract his tongue. Daken caresses the spikes on his carapace, looking at him as Anole catches his breath and relaxes his mouth, letting the muscles of his face slacken.

"I'm going to fuck you now."

"But ..." Anole protests. He sounds aimless, and he looks like he's drifting. Clearly this one isn't going to be reduced to base animal instincts and tearing off his own clothes, all wordless moaning and self-awareness melted to nothing. Still, this in-between state is entertaining too, lust blended with abject confusion, higher brain functions and critical thinking flying away on chemical wings. Objecting will seem pointless and dull to Anole at this point. Better to say yes.

Daken's flooding the air with pheromones, and if he's pleased that he's finally made this work, he's annoyed that the boy managed even the one word of protest.

"You're a terribly difficult boy to persuade, Anole. We both know you want me to fuck you. Say yes."

Anole blushes. Daken's well aware of the effect his focused stare has on the boy.

"... yes..."

Daken pushes him down onto his stomach. "Oh, god," Anole says.

"You've really never done this before."

"No... "

Daken licks a finger and starts to open Anole up. Anole arches and moans. "Don't be nervous, baby," Daken tells him, meaning it. He wants the kid relaxed and comfortable.

Daken stretches him out with two damp fingers. He doesn't have anything special to slick him with. Normally Daken wouldn't care overmuch about hurting a seduced dupe, but he still has plans for that tongue that require enthusiastic cooperation, and he doesn't want Norman asking questions about why their prisoner's bleeding from the asshole either.

Daken knows one sure way to get him wetter and simultaneously more relaxed.

Daken wets his mouth, leans down and slides the tip of his tongue from Anole's lower back to the crack of his ass, then all the way down until he reaches his asshole. Anole shakes and gasps as he first licks slowly around the ring of muscle, then goes to town, pulling out every trick he knows, and concentrating on getting Anole as spit-slick as possible.

While he rims Lizard Boy out, Daken caresses the spikes on his scalp, and at length he withdraws his tongue to ask a question. "Do you feel this?" He rubs a spike between two fingers to clarify the part to which he's referring.

"Yes," Anole pants.

"Does it feel good?"

Anole looks back at him and starts to answer, but then, as if for the first time, he notices the shackle binding his wrist.

"Why-- why am I chained?" he asks, bewildered.

Daken's found the best tack to take when they get like this is to be authoritative, so he firmly says the first thing that comes into his head. "Because it's fun."

Anole looks perplexed. Well, there were more jarring answers he could've given. Besides, Anole will probably forget and ask again five minutes from now, and he can give a better reason then. Not that it matters when he's reduced a person to the youthful equivalent of a dementia patient.

Anole rattles the chain, trying to shake the cuff off his hand.

Daken flips him over and slithers up his body, catching and holding his eyes. "You're chained because I want you to be. Relax."

Anole stops reluctantly. "All right."

Daken looks down at him with real affection. "Oh Anole. You're too easy."

"What?"

"I just had to get the hang of you," Daken tells him, not even bothering to be cryptic. He judges Anole to be far gone enough at this point that speaking the truth won't matter any.

Daken kisses him roughly. "Don't worry," he admonishes, nudging Anole's thighs open. "Just relax." Anole looks absolutely vulnerable underneath him. It's delicious, and Daken drinks the sight in with his eyes.

He wets his cock as much as he can, holds Anole's buttocks apart, and slowly pushes inside. Anole's ass feels cool around the head of his cock, but not too bad.

Anole cries out before he's even made two inches' progress. "Oh god it _hurts_!"

Daken immediately stills, holding himself up with his arms and not moving his cock another millimeter. Once you start inflicting pain on the ones who have any amount of self-awareness left, they can come out of the haze and then it's a bitch to get them back under control. Better to take the time and go nice and easy.

He knows exactly how long to wait before pressing farther in, feeding the boy another couple inches of his cock, getting about halfway inside. When Anole moans once more for him to please stop, he complies briefly. He's confident he knows how much Lizard Boy can take. Anole might be an innocent, but Daken's an old hand at virgin territory. Granted the actual sex is generally better with people who know their way around the bedroom, but Daken enjoys going where no one's been before him.

Feels like conquest.

He opens Anole up tenderly, with real gentleness, adding more spit a couple of times. Then he starts to go a little faster, and when he deems the boy can take it he fucks him hard. Anole lies under him, moaning and jerking, his cock drooling cool precum against Daken's stomach.

"Use your tongue," Daken demands, but he twists his face away when Anole slips the end of that long tongue into his mouth. "No--how I used mine on you."

"Oh," Anole whispers, flushing. "I never... I never did... that." Anole seems to be concentrating hard on his words. "It's, it's not something I wa--"

"Shh. Do it now, sweetheart. Do it for me," Daken murmurs, undulating gently inside him.

Anole reluctantly snakes his tongue out of his mouth, down their bodies and around to Daken's entrance. He pauses there, probes a moment, and then slides his tongue inside. He licks and flicks and swipes with his tongue, slipping it in deeply now and then, and Anole is much, much better at rimming than sucking cock. The sensation takes Daken's breath away.

Everybody's got a talent.

The feeling of that prehensile tongue dipping deep and doubling back inside makes Daken gasp and shudder.

"That's better," Daken nearly purrs when he's able to talk again. To reward Anole for being a good little fucktoy, he angles his hips to give Lizard Boy a taste of prostate stimulation. Anole reacts in a satisfyingly dramatic fashion, writhing and whimpering.

On his next pass Anole rapidly corkscrews Daken's asshole with his tongue, and then Daken's the one crying out. He's close now. Daken shakes against the boy, thrusts fast several times and slams in, grunting as he comes.

Anole gasps and clenches so hard when he ejaculates, Daken opens his eyes to see if something's wrong. The boy's lying with his eyes closed, looking blissed-out. Daken decides he doesn't need to ask if Anole's okay, but he does wonder what the hell just happened to him.

"Like... drinking hot. Hot chocolate," he mumbles dumbly.

Daken needs a few seconds to puzzle that one out, eventually surmising that Anole's enjoying the sensation of liquid heat flooding his insides. "Exquisite, isn't it?" He wouldn't know, but from the way Anole seems to gravitate towards warmth, he can imagine. Daken thinks about it. He rather likes the idea of someone so enjoying this previously unknown perk of taking his cock.

The boy hasn't come, but Daken's not concerned about that. "That was delightful," Daken tells him, stroking his flank. "I knew your tongue would be worth trying out."

Anole's eyes snap open and fill with unshed tears again. "My... my _tongue_?"

"Shh, don't cry." Daken pets the boy's carapace, gently stroking the sensitive, scaly skin around the bases of his horns. "You wanted to make love, so we made love. Wasn't that beautiful?" Daken's got what he wanted; he has no specific reason for why he's continuing to keep Lizard Boy pacified and soothed. Simple habit, perhaps.

Anole nods, blinking back the tears.

"You're a tricky one to get a handle on, Anole."

"What?"

"You'll understand later."

Anole barely seems to hear his reply, his mind having since moved on to more interesting places. "Can I ... can I do that to you?" Anole asks hesitantly.

Daken looks at him sharply, but the boy's guileless. He's not thinking of escape attempts, the pheromones still have him subdued and focused on sex.

Daken thinks it over. He sees no real reason not to, and when he glances down at Anole's hard, leaking cock, he makes up his mind. The idea of stripping away every facet of this boy's virginity appeals to him. He wouldn't have offered, but he's not going to say no.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you not to try anything," Daken says mildly.

Anole looks confused. "What do you--?"

Daken shakes his head. "Nothing, sweetheart. Let's do it."

Daken swiftly bends and takes Anole's cock in his mouth, deepthroating him immediately and swallowing several times in rapid succession. His cock feels _cold_. Anole nearly screams as he's squeezed by the muscles of Daken's throat.

He sucks for less than a minute, because he can tell Anole's close to coming. Then he pulls away, carefully depositing a good quantity of spit as he departs. As an afterthought, he trails his fingers over Anole's asshole, cupping some of his own come, and slicks that on top of the boy's cock too.

"You want to be on top?" This turn of events isn't bad at all, he decides. Daken's entertained, and that alone is worth the price of admission.

Anole nods, so Daken flips onto his stomach and pillows his head on his hands, knowing full well how seductive he looks in that position.

"I want to. I want to, see you," Anole says shyly.

Daken rolls over onto his back and spreads his legs, looking up at Anole lazily. "Like this?"

"Yes."

"You don't have to start slow or be gentle," he tells the boy carelessly.

"I... I don't want, you know. To ... hurt you."

"Don't worry, you won't." He feels impatient listening to the kid slowly string sentences together. Daken much prefers when the pheromones render them mute and mewling. Still, it's worth it to have experienced that long agile tongue.

Anole seems as eager to press their bodies back together as he is to sink his cock inside. He's still cool to the touch, but Daken doesn't truly mind.

Daken prepares himself for the familiar pain as Anole lines up. When Anole clumsily plunges inside, he hilts himself in one hard thrust. Which is okay; Daken had told him he could. The inward push hurts about as much as he expected, but the temperature takes him by surprise. Anole's cock is _cold_ , much colder than he expected even from having it in his mouth, and Daken suppresses a shiver.

Anole starts thrusting immediately. "Oh, god, it's so hot," Anole mumbles. "You're so hot."

"I am, aren't I." Anole doesn't even react to his words now. His eyes are scrunched closed, his pale green lips pulled into a pleasurable grimace. Daken's terribly amused contemplating what Lizard Boy's going to think about this later, but he pinches and fondles and wraps his legs around Anole's waist, to show him a good time.

Within thirty seconds Anole's fucking him past the point of no return. Daken can tell from long experience when it happens, and Anole totally loses it, pounding into Daken at full throttle, his face twisted. He slams in and convulses, coming in a flood of cool seed, and Daken can't hide his shudder this time. Anole collapses on him, seemingly to maximize their points of contact, stealing his warmth.

Still, the lighter body on top of his is not uncomfortable, and Daken lets him lie there for a little while, breathing evenly while the boy pants and catches his breath. He stops putting out the pheromones and waits for them to wear off.

The process doesn't take long.

Anole lifts his head to look at him, and Daken can almost see his mind unclouding as his eyes clear.

Anole's face falls very slowly. He goes from looking uncertain to looking betrayed to looking crushed. Daken should probably get the boy's clothes back on, and then notify Osborn that they have a prisoner.

Anole scrambles off him, trembling. "What did you do to me?" Sometimes they sound horror-stricken far disproportionate to the damage actually done, Daken thinks. They have no idea.

"Used you, I'm afraid. Felt good though, didn't it?"

Anole looks at him brokenly before curling up into a ball, pressing his face into his knees. Daken watches his shoulders shake.

On impulse, Daken shifts closer and puts his arms around him.

Anole fights at first, but he wouldn't have been up for a physical contest with Daken even before emotionally breaking down. The struggle lasts only a few moments before he gives up, allowing Daken to hold him tightly. He sobs on Daken's shoulder, and Daken wouldn't have guessed how openly devastated the boy would be. Quite interesting. He hadn't really hurt him, had taken great pains to avoid injuring him, in fact, but some people place an astounding premium on innocence.

Those people, the ones who wouldn't have chosen sex, often try to conceal their anguish at this point, keeping up pretensions for the sake of their dignity, but Anole's wearing his agony on his sleeve.

Of course plenty cry, too. There's nothing Daken hasn't seen. Daken's seduced hundreds or thousands of people and killed just as many up close. He's almost completely inured to other people's pain, but this isn't the first time he's grown inexplicably fond of one of his marks. Granted, he thinks it's less than the affection the average human feels for a puppy, but nevertheless, Daken recognizes low-grade attachment when he feels it. He's never sure precisely why it happens, and he can't quite articulate to himself why he feels a twinge of sympathy for this weeping, pale green mutant boy. Certainly Anole's young and handsome, in his way, but Daken's nonchalantly hurt and killed plenty of people who were pretty. Beauty is neither new nor special to him.

And it's only a twinge. The strong prey on the weak, and the strong survive. That's the way the world works, and Daken regrets nothing. But he's not one to over-analyze his own whims, cruel or compassionate either, so he sits and holds the boy until the sobs stop shaking his body. "It is what it is," he tells Anole, not unkindly.

"Put your clothes on and I'll turn up the thermostat." Daken stands up and lazily starts putting his uniform back on. "Osborn's going to want to talk to you."


End file.
